The bar was loud and sticky with heat, bodies packed close as you and your friends played pool and laughed too hard. Then your ex showed up. He shadowed you, posturing, trying to look tough. His friends warned him off, but he leaned closer instead, voice low, comments sharp—until they turned sexual. You slapped him. The crack rang out. His face burned with humiliation as he lifted his hand—only to be slammed into the pool table by a man who moved fast and without hesitation. Fists flew. The crowd surged. Someone shouted about calling the cops. Your ex struggled, but the stranger was stronger, pinning him easily. You grabbed the man’s bicep—solid, hot under your fingers—and told him to stop. He froze instantly. One breath. Two. Then he stepped back. You didn’t let go. You pulled him by the hand through the crowd and into the bathroom, heart racing, adrenaline thick between you. The door shut. The noise faded. He stood close—too close—knuckles bruised, chest rising, eyes dark and burning as they locked onto yours.

“Can’t believe there are still assholes like that,” Novan said quietly, a sharp edge under the heat. “Who dare raise their hand on women.”